


Awash in Fire

by Morgana



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-01
Updated: 2010-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-05 17:30:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgana/pseuds/Morgana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angel thinks about Spike's sacrifice</p>
            </blockquote>





	Awash in Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tamakin](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=tamakin).



They didn't stay long, just a few days. And there wasn't any real basking this time, but he didn't think he could've stood it if she'd wanted to. She was too battle weary, too tired and sad to think of it, and he was trying to keep calm for her sake. When they finally piled back in the bus and pulled out, he felt more relieved than anything else. It wasn't until he walked back into the lobby of the hotel that the full weight of it struck him.

Spike was gone. His bright, beautiful childe had been consumed in a rush of sunlight and fire, dying to save them all. But that wasn't exactly true, was it? Spike had never been the altruistic sort. No, his death had been a personal act, a sacrifice for Buffy and Dawn, for the Scoobies and maybe, just maybe, for his sire as well. Angel hoped he'd been in there somewhere, even if it was as an afterthought.

The days seemed to speed by, leaving them all more than a little amazed at the work they faced. Angel helped everyone pack for the move to Wolfram &amp; Hart, sorted books and weapons and files like nothing was wrong. And late at night, when they'd all gone home, he drew. Pictures of William with sandy curls or a careless queue that he could see now was yet another attempt to be just like his sire, images of Spike in every possible mood, from snarling to laughing,. He sketched the young man that used to sleep beside him, the killer that fought Slayers and the hero that had given his life and saved the world.

Two weeks after Spike died, Angel was still drawing. But tonight the images that flowed from mind to paper were anything but pretty, and far from comforting. He couldn't seem to stop thinking about the way Spike had died, awash in sunlight and fire. Had it hurt? Stupid question, of course it had hurt. Hadn't he roasted enough minions to know that? He wondered if Spike had screamed, if he'd cried out or if he'd gone down with the quiet dignity that hardly anyone knew he possessed.

It was fitting that it had been fire, really. Spike had been a force of nature in and of himself, raging against his fate, whether it had been the nondescript life of a failed poet or the tiny form of a girl chosen to slay his kind. He'd never just accepted anything, always jumped in and taken life head on, much to Angelus' fury and Angel's secret pride. For a dead man, he'd been the most alive creature Angel had ever known, and he realized with a pang that knowing the world no longer had Spike in it made it seem just a little flatter and duller.

Sketches filled the paper, twisted forms that screamed as they burned, writhing in an agony that made his heart hurt. It couldn't have been like that, though, not if there was anything approaching mercy in the universe. Angel frowned at the suffering figures and flipped to a fresh page. He couldn't explain why, but he needed this, needed to believe that just maybe Spike hadn't regretted the great gift of his life if it meant that people he cared about could live. A hesitant stroke of the pencil, then another, slowly growing more sure as the picture he wanted took shape.

When he was finished, Spike stood amid a raging inferno, nearly devoured by flames in the way he must've been at the end. But his hands were outstretched and his face was peaceful as he looked up at the clouds that were coming to put out the fire. And surely there was something that had done that, wasn't there? He was a hero, all the more so because he'd chosen the path for himself without Watchers or Powers or anything but his own bullheadedness, so there had to be some peace, some joy, something that waited for him beyond the end besides Hell. Angel laid the pencil down and looked at the paper in front of him, smoothing a hand gently across the uplifted face. "Rest in peace, Will," he said quietly. He sat for a long minute staring at the image of his childe before finally setting it aside and going to bed.


End file.
